If Sylvie Had Nine Lives

by Leona Theis

  They stood side by side and faced the couple in the mirror, the cat burglar and the cat. “We don’t even look like ourselves,” he said. They hoped to meet new people at Calum and Mitch’s tonight, clean-slate people, but in a city this size the renovation and design trades amounted to their own small town. Odds were they’d see familiar faces.

  Syl felt the claws against her skin and coaxed the bird forward a smidgen. The old joke about the guy with the spear through his middle: Only when I laugh.

  They’d done well together the past couple of months, and you couldn’t even say they were doing it for the kids, because the kids were off and gone. Brycie had switched to UVic for the final year of her commerce degree and moved out of the basement in August none the wiser. Adam had begun a masters in set design in Edmonton. Syl and Erik made a great parenting team; they often told each other so; the evidence was there in Adam and Brycie. Through the years of soccer and swim and elementary teacher wars, they’d sometimes referred to the kids as a unit: Trial and Joy. Which was which? the kids wanted to know. Depends on the day, you understand? Most days they understood well enough to laugh about it. Most days Syl and Erik did too. A rough beginning, though, with Adam’s tantrums the winter he was closing in on two, and Erik, the nerve of him, packing the car for a weekend in Ripley snowmobiling with his brother. “Try out that new machine.”

  “You can’t leave me alone with a cranky kid all weekend.”

  Adam banged a yellow dump truck on the fake wood of the coffee table again and again.

  “That’s twice this month,” she said.

  “But the snow’s going, babe.”

  “So’s my sanity.”

  “Just one night then.”

  “No! You’ll kill yourself out there. Drunk and dark and hazards in the ditches. I know that brother of yours.”

  “Are you worried about me flipping in a ditch or are you worried about yourself flipping out?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Erik dropped his duffel bag, snatched the dump truck from his son’s fierce grip and hucked it at the door. The child wailed, red in the face.

  “I get scared,” said Syl.

  “I know.” Erik pulled on his heavy snow boots and said, “I’m going for cigarettes.” He didn’t smoke; it was what either of them said when they were desperate for a breather. He’d stayed in town that weekend, for Adam and for her.

  They’d been through that and how much more.

  Now they were footloose in their forties, playing Californication loud enough that James from the next house over had knocked one day and asked could they turn it down, he had three dozen first-year philosophy essays to mark. Syl felt so young in fact that once of a late afternoon, Erik being off with his buddies on their annual BMW ride through the BC interior and she sitting on the front step toking up, anxious as always that Erik would come back dead one year from that damn bike trip, she’d called out to James, who was on his own front step with a glass of wine. “Do you want a hit, Jimmy?”

  “Name’s James,” he’d said, lifting his glass to show he was fine. From then on, he’d been Name’s James in her mind. If Name’s James hadn’t declined — all that first-year marking, you’ve no idea — if he hadn’t declined, who knew? And he had suggested she ask again once summer session was over. Syl remained aware of this slim crack in the wall of her rebuilt marriage, and once in a while she tried peeking through it, hoping to catch sight of herself and wondering how she’d feel if she did.

  The bird flopped forward again on her shoulder. “I got it,” Erik said, and he bent its wire legs to keep it standing. “In this life there are ways.” It was a phrase he used often, in varied form; a motto, you could say.

  “In this life are many options,” he’d said all those years ago when the distance course that would have made her a CTC, a Certified Travel Consultant, hadn’t worked out. Followed by the course that would have made her a Certified Public Accountant, ditto.

  “You can’t just give up,” he’d said as yet another binder gathered dust. “Any day of the week, with the business, I could up and say it’s too much, but where’s the fun in that?”

  “I didn’t say it’s fun.”

  “Look, there’s always a way. For me, it’s lay someone off or find a new supplier, put in longer hours. You figure it out.”

  “It’s not like you think.”

  “Then what is it like?”

  “I take out the binder, I stare at the pages, I freeze. In the face of it, I just freeze. If I want to start breathing again, I have to go do something else.”

  “But you’re way smarter than the next person. Be logical.”

  “You want a world where logic applies to everything.”

  “Do not fret.” He held her close and cradled her head against his chest in the way they had back then. With relief, she’d stacked and stowed the binders of unfinished worksheets and put in a couple of years in front-line retail. The biggest trial had been the fondling of so many hats and scarves and gloves for seven-odd hours, only to fight the temptation to slip a soft little something into her purse at the end of shift. When the impulse to do that surged to the level where it frightened her, she told Erik she was murdered with standing on the store’s ceramic floors all day.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” he said. “We’ve got options we haven’t even sniffed at yet.” He sat with her at the computer in the den and trained her to do the books for the reno business. “It’s simple. The debits go by the window. Can you at least smile? You won’t even have to change out of your pyjamas.” In high school she’d excelled at math, and accounting wasn’t even math, only arithmetic with a particular set of rules. The salary she and Erik settled on was half as much again as they would have paid a pro. Her part-time hours showed up as full-time on the record, and voilà: income splitting with paper trail enough to satisfy what Erik called the bureau cats.

  Last week a woman on the radio had recited a stat that was supposed to represent the number of women in Canada who appeared to be well off, but who might be described more accurately as “one man away from poverty.” Hearing this, Syl had felt a tiny sharp needle in her temple. How did they come up with such a number, anyway? Don’t think about that right now; go for a walk and maybe Name’s James will be out front on his step with his glass of afternoon red.

  No such luck.

  ERIK DROVE, and Syl sat holding her jacket away from her shoulder so she wouldn’t crush the white bird as the truck bumped along the potholed streets. At Calum and Mitch’s they rang the bell and waited on the verandah, Erik cradling his two-litre bottle of ginger ale. Syl was giddy, thinking in a save-it-for-later way of the black silk undies only she and Erik knew she wore underneath her costume. A Rapunzel they weren’t acquainted with opened the door and disappeared back into the party, her braid wrapped twice around her neck and trailing down her back. Syl was startled by an urge to yank hard at the braid. She had to still the muscles in her arm that wanted to reach for it. In the living room they saw a brick in conversation with a bricklayer, and an undertaker — or was he a necrophiliac? — kissing the hand of a corpse. The dead woman wore an artful mask of papier-mâché flesh falling away from papier-mâché bone. Syl hadn’t been to a costume party in years, hadn’t realized these tandem get-ups were so common. She turned to Erik. “There’s nothing so original about us.”

  On a bookshelf they found a stack of plastic glasses and eased two off the top for their ginger ale. So far they recognized no one aside from their hosts, who were Doctor Frankenstein and his creation. Mitch had an extra ear attached to his neck, and a spare eye dangled against his cheek, attached with theatrical putty. He reached to pet Syl’s hair. “Pussy, pussy.”

  Calum was plain and scrubbed and wearing a white lab coat, spectacles in the pocket. He proffered a Melmac tray with brie-filled dates, squishy bundles that made Syl think of the organs of small animals. She turned her face away. “No, thank you.”

  Mitch dipped a finger into his wine gla
ss and held it above his extra eyeball, where it dripped bloody looking drops. “This little touch,” he said, “was inspired by true events in the life of you, my man Erik. Why would you go and get a detached retina?”

  “It isn’t as if I ordered it.”

  “I can think of only one way they could have gotten at your eyeball, and that’s to pop it right out.”

  “Can you please not?” said Syl. “Why do people have to talk about the gory details of every little thing?”

  “Wow. Okay. Relax, wee pussy.”

  THE DINING ROOM TABLE was draped in deep purple and strewn with iridescent stars. Dry ice smoldered around the punch bowl so it looked to be levitating. Syl and Erik stood in the mist. Close by was a man with a Bill Clinton mask, and next to him Rapunzel. Clinton reached for her long braid, uncoiled it from her neck, wrapped it around his own and mimed a hanging. Rapunzel feigned lack of interest and moved the stars about on the tablecloth.

  “Make a constellation,” Syl said to either or both of them.

  Rapunzel smiled, at the table rather than at Syl. “Okay. Orion.” She gave the hunter a heroic build, small at the waist, the stars for the shoulders wide apart. Lining up two stars below the belt, she said, “Does Orion’s dagger point left or right?”

  Clinton laughed. “You think that’s a dagger, do you?” The two of them moved off, linked by the braid and by Clinton’s hand on Rapunzel’s bustle.

  ERIK’S EYE CRISIS had gone through three stages. The first was, Don’t worry, this happens all the time; a simple procedure, time to heal, and you’ll be good as new. Tick-tack with a laser, and the retina was back in place. In a matter of days it tore again, clear across the top, and slumped inside his eye. At City Hospital the surgeon sewed a silicone cinch around his eyeball to give the retina a little slack. If it didn’t have to stretch so far it might stay put. Syl fetched and carried for several days while Erik rested, but the coddled eye refused to heal. Syl could hardly bear to hear the particulars of the third surgery and the gas bubble the surgeon injected into his eye. Yet more fetching and carrying while Erik walked with a forward lean, sat with a forward lean, cogitated on who knew what while he studied his knees, so the upward pressure of the bubble would hold steady while the tissues knit themselves back together.

  Syl angled a mirror against the foot of the couch to reflect the TV screen in a way that allowed him to watch. He sat on a straight-back chair with his back to the television, neck bent, and looked down into the mirror. He watched the news; he watched Law & Order; he said, “Rent me a movie, sweetie, please.” She brought home Blue, because he liked Juliette Binoche so much and he’d only ever seen The English Patient. She slid the videotape in, and when it began to play Erik said, “I’m supposed to read subtitles, babe? In the mirror?”

  “Oops.” She handed him the remote. He flipped through the channels, bouncing the signal off the mirror, settling on Mad about You. Apparently if you couldn’t have Juliette Binoche, Helen Hunt would do. She knelt to eject the videotape and caught herself in the mirror. In the past few weeks her looks had become a worry out of all proportion. But her hair was better with the new cut; the length suited her. And the jeans fit well enough. Fine, she would never be a stunner. Fine. “Have a nice evening,” she said, “you and your mirror.” She pretended that last was a joke. It was outrageous the way he’d one-upped her with this eye trouble.

  GOOD OLD, BAD OLD Miles from On the Level Flooring walked into the dining room wearing a wizard’s gown and cap, drugstore vinyl. He was carrying a nose made of soft, flesh-coloured plastic, warts and all, which he set down to ladle himself a drink.

  “Good All Saints’ Eve,” he said.

  “Hello Miles,” said Syl, because one of the ideas about a party was to avoid being rude for the space of a full evening.

  “Miles from Nowhere,” Erik said.

  “You two don’t even look like yourselves.”

  Syl wished for a proper mask. “You recognized us easily enough.”

  Mist moved in shreds across the stars on the purple tablecloth. Miles looked down at the stars. “Is that supposed to be Orion?”

  “Ten points for you,” Syl said. Erik gathered a fold of tablecloth in his fingers and twisted it.

  Miles said, “It looks like Orion’s, um, dagger is … disoriented.” He picked up his plastic nose and used it to nudge the stars below the belt so they angled toward the hunter’s right thigh rather than his left. “It’s important, which direction a guy’s dagger leans.”

  Syl looked at the empty vodka bottle beside the punchbowl. Erik hadn’t had a drink in over three months now, and his sponsor just last week had rewarded him with a “clean and serene” keychain, and good for him but his weaknesses were not hers and she’d had it with ginger ale. She ladled vodka punch to top up what was left in her glass.

  “Why not just say what you mean?” Syl looked Miles in the eye.

  He pumped the nose in his hand so it made air farts. He raised the ladle and looked at Erik. “Punch?”

  Erik raised his half-full glass to show what he was drinking. His face was expressive in its inexpressiveness.

  “Right. Slipped my mind.” Miles turned and left the room, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to party like it’s 1999.”

  Syl picked up the plastic nose he’d left behind and plunked it some distance from Orion. “It ruins the look.”

  “The look of what?” The corpse they’d seen earlier in the living room was approaching the table, her mask tilted back above her forehead, visor-like, exposing her face. Julia. Trust a professional designer to craft such an elaborate disguise from papier-mâché. The man in the midnight suit, who was undertaker or necrophiliac or both, followed her, his top hat dark above the painted pallor of his face, his red lips wearing the smile a person puts on when they know they’re in a situation but they don’t know what it is. His eyes were on Julia as she doled out small nods, first to Syl, then to Erik.

  Julia raised a hand and tapped the mask above her forehead. “My plan was to remain incognito, but I lost my straw, and I can’t drink through this thing.” The elastic strap of the mask had pulled her silver wig askew, and a curl of her own hair, coppery and shining, escaped at one side. Erik’s hand rose just slightly in the direction of that curl. The hand stopped in mid-air and fell back to his side, but the ghost of the unfinished gesture hovered.

  For this I wore my new silk underwear.

  Julia looked toward Syl. “I thought you two would be at Rhonda’s.

  “Ditto.” Syl drained her punch, confiscated Erik’s unfinished pop, and set both glasses on the table close to the man with the top hat. They searched their jackets out from the heap in the entranceway. Syl zipped hers shut without a thought to the bird or the dig of its claws. She would drive. As they waited for the truck to warm up she brushed with her white glove across the fog inside the windshield. Erik sat hunched in the passenger seat, his hands tucked under his thighs.

  “Give me details,” she said. “Tell me everything. Did you screw her in the master bedroom at the reno in Lawson Heights, or was it always the office at the back of the showroom, like Cynthia said? Did you do it in the chair, or on the throw rug? Up against the desk?” He’d just seen Julia, which meant he’d just been back in that chair, or on that rug, or bracing his feet on that office floor.

  “We don’t need to talk about this.”

  “What did you use to wipe up afterward? Your shirttail? Kleenex? The Calvin Klein boxers I put in your Christmas stocking?”

  “You said you didn’t want to know these things. And they don’t matter.”

  “Did you watch her fall asleep?”

  He was still sitting on his hands, which she wanted to yank from under him, but then what?

  “Tell me every goddamn thing.”

  “Oh, Syl.” He turned toward her. “Everything?” The black marks she’d painted below his eyes, shadowed by his glasses, were darker than anything else in the car. “Here’s something I ca
n tell you, for instance: you need attention every second, baby, and nobody, nowhere, has that much attention circling around looking for a place to land.”

  A hole opened low in Syl’s gut, and her idea of who they were fell through it.

  “What else? You come out to a job site and you rant about Joseph’s sick days until I’m sick of hearing it, and poor old Joseph — hell, Syl!”

  “But he —”

  “And you’ve been toking on the sly, and you know that messes me up when I’m working so hard not to. What else? Last month you expensed a pair of boots to the company and those were no workboots, they were from Aldo, and yes I look at the receipts, of course I look at the receipts!”

  “Those were for —”

  “If you want new boots, baby, just take real money and buy new boots. Buy whatever you need, whenever you need it.”

  Syl pulled her fingers and thumbs back inside her gloves and made two fists and pushed them together in her lap. Her knuckles knocked against each other, and the empty fingers of her one black glove and her one white glove collapsed in a stalemate.

  “Look,” he said quietly, “this isn’t necessary. Everything does not need to be said. Some things never need to be said. We’re together, just like always.”

  “Just like always.”

  “Almost always,” he said with a shrug and a smile. He laid a hand, a gentle pressure, over the place where her two fists came together. “I thought we were past this.”

  “What if I have more to say?”